


Special Effects

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Breathplay, Costume Kink, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mild-to-Moderately Creepy, Prosthetic Makeup, The Valiant (Doctor Who), The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who), it's all of these things? but also none of these things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 23:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19518529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: It's the symbol of it, he supposes. The visual, ever-present reminder. Like the Master's suits and expensive Oxfords, or Lucy's perfect, stiff curls. Like the twisted mask he painstakingly illustrates on the Doctor's face and hands, every single day.





	Special Effects

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zabbers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/gifts).



> _"What if instead of actually ageing him with the laser screwdriver, Simm! just lovingly applied special FX makeup to him every morning?"_
> 
> It really didn't need to be written, but I wrote it anyway :P It ended up quite creepy and introspective. It's not sexual, but it's oddly intimate and smells vaguely like noncon. So uh, don't read that. If you don't want to read that.

Every time he is here, he expects—

_The centre of the room, an empty dental chair, buckles dangling from the armrests. Harsh floodlights. Studio mirror, the green-blue echoes stretching to infinity, his own body small and fractured within them. Windowless. Wall-mounted sink. Disposable gloves in three sizes. Plastic lining, taped to the floor._

—He expects.

But it is never that simple. Not for them.

The Master is fastidious. Each stray hair is nudged off the Doctor's forehead, combed, dampened with a spritz of sweet-smelling fluid. Hands - forceful, rough - flatten it against his scalp.

It is early; four in the morning. The ship is very quiet.

The smell of latex rubber in this sterile, alcohol-sweet room evokes something animal, like musk, and not entirely pleasant. Still, the sheet is stretched over the Doctor's head. It covers his ears, gets his heartsbeats to thrum against his gloved skull. The Master's fingers slide, press underneath, push the last strands of hair into place.

It is always a little frightening to see the Master aim a pair of scissors at his eye, no matter how small. But the Master hasn't cut him. _(Yet.)_ The Master stays very close, and he must remain focussed, and the Doctor shudders to feel both the intimacy and the threat of it. To be the nucleus of the Master's singular will.   
  
The ghost of chilled metal, the gentle irregular noise of the scissors pass. The excess is snipped away. The Master leans back a moment, to his torturer's display of paintbrushes and cotton swabs. He selects one of the former, daubs a little adhesive on it.

With a thumb pressed to the Doctor's cheek, just below his maxillary sinus, he paints glue across the Doctor's forehead, and they do not speak. He might accidentally move his head, or the Master's hand may falter, and the Doctor knows that should either happen, they will have to repeat this part of the process again. The Master's hand doesn't falter, and the Doctor's breath does.

It is barely audible - the sound of a cotton bud, gently dropped in a glass beaker. But beside the creak of fabric and the whisper of skin, the room is silent, and so the Doctor hears it just the same. The swab feels like ice on his forehead as it evaporates off his skin. The Master, a creature of ritual, always starts here.

'Are you crying, Doctor?' the Master asks, after some minutes.

'No,' the Doctor answers. It's the truth. The fumes from the acetone are burning his eyes, making them water.

The Master tuts softly. 'Pity.'

When the edges of the latex are almost indistinguishable from his skin, the next part of the process begins. More glue, glazed across the bridge of his nose and pushed into the corners of his frown. The smell always makes him want to sneeze. ( _Mistake._ ) It dries cold and tacky on his face, and the Master tests this with a fingertip before draping a sheet of silicone across his palm.

It goes over the Doctor's nose and mouth, and it feels like being smothered. The blunt press of the Master's hand, an immovable weight over his mouth and jaw, thumb and forefinger squeezing his nose shut - well. It doesn't do much to help.

It _does_ remind the Doctor to engage his respiratory bypass, though, as the Master switches out his fingers for a pair of tweezers and a paintbrush, and smooths the filmy edges to lie flat against his skin. And when that's done, there's more thick moulding to be cut away, more glue, more solvent. The Master still hasn't bothered starting on his sealed lips. It's become a game for them. Sometimes the Doctor makes it all the way through, usually by such a small margin he's gasping for breath as soon as the Master's hand leaves his face. The dice are loaded, naturally. It takes as long as the Master wants it to take. And often the Doctor loses.

The Master must be in a good mood today, because the Doctor is uncomfortable, but by no means struggling once the prosthetic is fixed in place. He can't help grinning dizzily, the now-familiar sensation of something stiff moving in tandem with his mouth. But there is a lot more to go, and it's only going to get more claustrophobic from here. Cautiously, the Doctor shifts in his seat.

Not for the first time, the Doctor wonders about the point of the restraints. They're just buckles, and he could probably stretch his fingers around to undo them if he tried. It's not like he's going to try and escape, anyway. The Master has far more effective ways to keep him under control.

It's the symbol of it, he supposes. The visual, ever-present reminder. Like the Master's suits and expensive Oxfords, or Lucy's perfect, stiffened curls. Like the twisted mask he painstakingly illustrates on the Doctor's face and hands, every single day.

It says: _You are not in control, here._ It says: _You are mine, and I'll do what I like with you._ It says: _You're a message._

The Doctor has been guessing at the message for four months, now, and he hasn't got it yet.

Four months of the same cramp in his neck. That's the worst part, really. Well, he tells himself it's the worst part. There are much worse parts, but they aren't happening to him.

This? He doesn't entirely dislike it. While the Master is occupied here, he isn't occupied elsewhere. That's always a good thing. Some of it - like now, when his face is powdered with detailing brushes, and the glue warms to his skin, and the Master stops looking him in the eye - is meditative. It's perverse and intriguing to the Doctor in equal measure, and the Master was always very good at doing that.

Then there's the soft touch of another Time Lord, which he can't escape, and instead endures for hours at a time. He doesn't know if he likes that. But this body does, and that only makes it worse. It's been a very long time since he was touched with kindness. And this isn't kind.

Something becomes increasingly strained between them, the longer it takes, the less words they say. It's getting worse lately. In an effort to avoid the Master's microscopic focus, the Doctor looks aside and catches himself in the mirror. He doesn't recognise himself - hasn't for some time. He's almost forgotten what he looks like.

'Doctor? Look at me.'

And he does.

The groundwork is finished, now. He is covered in so much rubber and silicone and glue, his face feels permanently encased, mummified. Next is the painting. He'd never taken the Master for an artist, but it shocks him less the more he thinks about it. Careful, meticulous ritual, planning; carving out his design stroke by careful stroke. He stares at the Doctor with such intent, and no longer able to feel each brushstroke and dab of the sponge, held in place by more than buckles, the Doctor begins to feel there is nothing of him left but the Master's design.

It's only five-thirty. This part takes the longest.

The Doctor goes away for a little while, and hates that it feels nice when the Master touches him because he isn't touching him at all.

The final touches on his face. A bit of red daubed on his lips, the mockery of a kiss, a few wisps of hair to hide the place where the pieces join. The Master's face grows colder with each detail.

They're done, and the Doctor leans up, ready to shake himself out and assume the role the Master has expected of him—

A hand on his head pushes him back, threatening to undo all this hard work, and the Doctor is utterly still. Shrunken back in his chair like the decrepit thing he is.

'It amazes me,' the Master comments, idly, and squeezes a cleansing wipe across his left hand. 'How you never seem to learn.'

He pauses, as if caught in two minds. It's an uncommon thing. He takes the Doctor's hand in his, delicate, inspecting, and wets his brush with adhesive. The Master twines their bare fingers together for a horrible moment.

The Doctor grimaces, shifts away. 'Don't. Just, don't.'

Already sour, the Master's expression darkens. He takes one of the Doctor's fingertips and squeezes the nail between his thumb and the paintbrush's shaft - and the Doctor visibly winces, yanks his hand against the cuffs.

'I'll do what I like,' the Master snarls. And he takes the Doctor's hand again, tender as anything.

Near sunrise, the Doctor is tossed into a wheelchair. He's played the part for so long, he hardly knows how to do anything else. It isn't difficult. It's easier, in fact, because it gives him an excuse for his impotence.

They look at him with pity, and that's worse than hate. The Master just looks at him like he always has: like he knows something, some wicked secret, dangling on the line like a lure. It says: _I know what you are._

And the Doctor can't be sure, but he wonders if that's the message. The Master made it visible, so now they can all see what he looks like.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. Mostly. 
> 
> Okay, only a little bit.


End file.
